


The World On the Other Side

by arabmorgan



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Adventure, Alternate Universe - Historical, Historical Inaccuracy, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-13
Updated: 2017-04-13
Packaged: 2018-10-18 09:23:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10613994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arabmorgan/pseuds/arabmorgan
Summary: Stepping into a magician's tent, the last thing Tony expects to see isrealmagic, but that's actually going to be the least surprising thing about his day.Or, aNadia: The Secret of Blue WaterAU.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I'm back from the dead! As in, the death of not posting, and also the deaths I went through writing this monster. Seriously.
> 
> I owe a million thanks to [lomezzo](http://lomezzo.tumblr.com/), the most wonderful artist ever (seriously, even if you don't read this, _scroll down for the art_ ) who of course came up with the entire idea for this story. Also the literal best at catching my awful typos and the most patient person ever for enduring my many hysterical freak-outs about approaching deadlines and excessive overuse of caps and exclamation marks.
> 
> Also thank you to plumadesatada for organising this reverse bang, the first time I've ever tried participating in anything like this. Immensely stressful, but also immensely rewarding.

_Paris, 1889_

It’s the sound of thrilled exclamations that first attracts him to the small tent set apart from the Big Top. It’s a bit of a character failing in him, this competitive spirit – the need to see for himself exactly what might be enticing those _ooh_ s and _ahh_ s out of the crowd when he isn’t the main attraction.

_The Wonder of Loki: real magic you’ll never see anywhere else!_ is what a small signboard outside the tent proclaims in cursive French, complete with a clichéd picture of bright colours and small animals and cards. Magic, hah. Tony’s lip curls.

Had Jarvis been present, everything that followed could have been quite neatly avoided, but Jarvis is an ocean away, caring for the Stark home until Tony’s return. Besides, there is still more than an hour to kill before the contest, and youthful arrogance drives him forward.

He has to pay to enter the tent, a trifling amount that he forgets as soon as it leaves his palm. The interior is more spacious than he would have expected, the drop in temperature notably evident despite the already-cool autumn breeze swirling by outside. Unconsciously, he sticks his hands into the pockets of his jacket, snug against the velvety fabric.

As one, the audience lets out another gasp, and Tony’s eyes narrow. He’s long given up bemoaning his less-than-impressive height; instead, he begins to burrow through the crowd with single-minded determination, squeezing his way to the front until he finds his chest pressed against a railing. The rail arcs in a smooth circle, keeping the enthralled audience away from the solitary figure in the middle of the tent, sandaled feet light on the dirt floor.

It’s actually the lights that catch Tony’s eye first, pale twinkling orbs that hover serenely about the performer’s head, shining the sharp blue-white of ice and throwing dark shadows across the tent. Only then does his attention descend to the young man juggling a multitude of colourful balls with casual ease, head cocked to one side in an almost relaxed manner. This, he assumes, is the _wonderful_ Loki.

The juggling is impressive, the balls a rainbow blur through the air, too many to count, but it hardly accounts for the wonder winding its way through the audience, suffusing the air with a buzz of anticipation. Tony frowns, already bored, fingers itching to give the _Maria_ one last look-over before the race begins.

And then one of the balls seems to fly out of formation, up into the air, spinning and spinning until it is no longer an inanimate sphere but a tiny hummingbird, wings whirring and whirring. It flits about in frantic little darts, the crowd following its every move like starving wolves, and just before it looks like it is about to crush its little body against the thick canvas of the tent, it fades out of existence in a shower of gold sparks.

Just like that, Tony is riveted. He peers hard at the so-called ‘magician’, thinking of hidden projectors and puppets on strings, but the pale figure is clad in little more than an open vest and a simple wrap around his waist. Which is the whole point of this charade, he supposes – to show that there’s nothing to hide, drawing attention away from the actual key to the trick.

A plant in the audience, Tony decides swiftly, an assistant out of sight and thus out of mind.

Still, he is impressed. Each time something ‘magical’ happens, a small flare of blue light pulses from the pendant resting against Loki’s chest, perfectly timed and executed. He has no idea how the effect is being achieved, and for a self-professed genius, it’s more than a little infuriating.

He doesn’t have much time left to loiter by the time the show winds down and people start to trickle out, but loiter he does anyway. It’s not as if they’re going to start the contest without him; he knows for a fact that people from all around the world have gathered at the _Exposition Universelle_ just to see the Starks’ first unveiled aircraft fly, piloted by the young Stark heir himself.

For a moment, he wonders if he can still be called an heir if he’s already inherited everything there is to inherit. He is _the_ Stark now, not just ‘the Stark kid’ any longer – so far, he hasn’t enjoyed the title as much as he thought he would. The price was too high for that.

“You do realise that the show is over?” The cool, bored voice drags him out of his head, back into the tent that is now completely empty but for him and Loki. The performer has somehow managed to make his way right up to the railing without startling Tony out of his reverie, and is currently staring with unconcealed impatience.

Up close, Tony suddenly realises how very _tall_ Loki is, his body pale and narrow but full of lean muscle. Then his gaze lands on the necklace dangling before his eyes – more of an intricately-designed, cube-like object than any traditional locket or teardrop pendant, he notes with interest – and he remembers that he’s not here to gawk at some half-dressed circus performer.

“That was some show. You really made it look like magic,” he says, folding his arms with a smirk, just the slightest hint of a challenge in his tone.

Loki barely reacts, like it’s an insinuation he’s all too familiar with, and maybe it is. “And you are welcome back to the next one, but I’m on my break right now,” is all the taller man says, already turning away, a clear dismissal.

“Aw, come on!” Tony is after him in a flash, tone high and wheedling. “I’ve been learning a few tricks in my spare time. How about a few tips? Did you use sparklers?” It’s a lie, obviously; he’s never given magic a second’s thought his entire life – but he’s nothing if not a master negotiator, and he can already tell that denouncing Loki’s trade isn’t going to work on this guy. Flattery, though, always has a chance of succeeding.

“Sparklers.” Loki actually pauses and turns in order to chuckle right in Tony’s face. “First, I don’t reveal my secrets to just anyone. Second, there _are_ no tricks involved.” He shakes his head, looking amused, like Tony is some sort of idiot for not believing in sorcery.

“Okay, look, I’m not going to call you a fraud or tell anyone else. I just really want to know. I mean, we both know that wasn’t _real_ magic,” Tony insists, following Loki along the edge of the rail.

This time, the other man doesn’t even respond, the set of his shoulders as relaxed as ever. He’s almost reached the entrance flap of the tent when a sudden force rushes in and bowls him over, sending him tumbling across the ground while Tony stares with his mouth wide open.

Not a _force_ , Tony realises eventually, but a force of nature, a mountain of a man clad in gleaming armour and a red cloak. Not only is he holding, of all things, a hammer bigger than any Tony’s ever seen, he’s followed by four other similarly-dressed individuals who look like they belong a hundred years in the past.

“There is no escape for you, giant,” the man rumbles, which is a little ironic to Tony considering the intruder is currently the tallest person in the suddenly-cramped space.

Loki is still sprawled on the ground, the side of his stomach scraped raw, and is blinking owlishly at the strange ensemble. Tony himself is frozen in place, reeling from the shock and wondering if this is all a big practical joke – or, more likely, an attempt to kidnap him for his brains.

But it’s like he’s suddenly turned invisible; the five strangers converge on Loki instead, a threatening mass dwarfing the magician’s slighter frame.

With a thoroughly appalling show of strength, the red-cloaked leader of the strange gang hauls Loki up by the armhole of his vest, leaving him dangling in mid-air like a puppet. Loki gives a choked sort of gasp, an expression of fearful confusion on his face, and Tony feels like he should do _something_.

Except the hulking man reaches for the pendant resting against Loki’s bare chest, looking like he’s going to take Loki’s head right off along with it, and all of a sudden, the whole world turns white.

Tony stumbles back, blinded, feeling like his eyelids have been seared off. His sight comes back by increments, the light sliding away from the corners of his vision enough for him to see a jumbled heap of flesh and armour on the other side of the tent.

“What happened –” he starts, sluggishly blinking the pain out of his eyes. He sees Loki already on his feet, scrambling for the entrance, but he turns back at the sound of Tony’s voice, confusion and anger lining his narrow face. One hand grasps anxiously at his pendant, an unconscious gesture.

“How did you _do_ that?” Tony casts a pointed glance at the unconscious intruders, even as he gives them a wide berth on his way to Loki, whose eyes remain narrow and suspicious the nearer he gets.

“You wouldn’t believe me even if I told you,” the magician snaps dismissively, backing away before Tony can reach a comfortable conversational distance. “I really must be going.”

Tony’s expression sets in annoyance as he abruptly drops all pretence. “It has to do with your necklace,” he says flatly. “It’s some sort of contraption, isn’t it? I’m not stupid.”

The ugly disdain that flashes across Loki’s face takes him by surprise, but before either of them can continue their budding disagreement, a soft groan sounds from the side. It’s the dark-haired woman, shoving her compatriots off her with unnervingly little effort as she reaches for the sword slung across her back.

Tony’s eyes meet Loki’s for less than a second.

“ _Run_!” he yells, sprinting right past the taller man and grabbing his wrist along the way. They burst out of the tent and into sunlight that dazzles Tony’s eyes, but he doesn’t slow down. Shaking his head in an attempt to clear the spots dancing in his vision, he stumbles along determinedly, knocking people aside with reckless abandon and dragging Loki along behind him.

“Stop! That is an _order_!” comes an angry shout from behind, and Tony risks a glance over his shoulder to see the warrior woman hot on their heels. Not good.

“Where are we going?” Loki demands, but he no longer sounds like he’s picking a fight. All the belligerence seems to have leaked out of him, leaving him once more bewildered and afraid.

“Somewhere,” Tony snaps back, terse and out of breath as he scans their surroundings and tries to consider all their options. He might be young, but he’s not exactly at the pinnacle of fitness.

They blow past a poster advertising the very contest he is here to participate in, and the answer hits him at once. “We’re flying out of here.” He glances at Loki with a wide grin, squeezing the other man’s hand encouragingly.

The crowd gathered about the open field doubling up as a makeshift runway is thick and noisy, a double-edged sword for the two escapees. Shoving their way over to Tony’s plane is a feat in and of itself, but he doubts the woman will be able to find them once they’re lost in the thronging mass of onlookers.

He breezes past security with all the confidence of someone who isn’t being chased by a group of insane ruffians, acknowledging a confused-sounding, “Mr. Stark?” with a sideways nod and his trademark smirk.

Some of the tightness in his chest dissipates at the sight of the _Maria_ , sleek and well-proportioned, her nose already pointed outwards to freedom. She’s not built to seat two, but Tony’s willing to count Loki as baggage weight.

“Get in!” he shouts, finally letting go of Loki’s hand so he can spring into the cockpit with practiced ease. To his credit, Loki only stares at him in disbelief for a full second, before taking one look back and proceeding to scramble his way up after Tony. Looking past his unexpected companion, he can immediately see why – their four attackers have apparently recovered enough from their temporary unconsciousness to join forces with their sole female friend, and are currently pushing their way towards the _Maria_ with so much force Tony swears he sees a kid go flying.

It’s a tight squeeze, comical almost, with Loki sitting in the pilot’s seat and Tony perched uncomfortably on the other’s bony knees, but the inventor is currently much too preoccupied with the aircraft controls to think too hard about anything else.

“Are you sure this thing flies?” Apparently, even in peril, Loki is able to pull off dry disbelief with relative ease.

Tony scowls, patting the side of the cockpit in apology for its ungrateful passenger. “Twin steam engines,” he bites back. “She goes like a dream. Now kindly be quiet so I can save both of our lives.”

Loki sits back with a thump, and the silence he leaves behind is thoroughly disgruntled. Just for that, Tony doesn’t say a single word as he eases the control stick forward and the _Maria_ starts forward with a jolt. Loki jerks at the sudden motion, a huff of breath escaping his lungs as his arms wrap around Tony’s torso in sudden panic.

“Calm _down_ ,” Tony sputters between chuckles. “You didn’t think we were going to get anywhere without moving, were you?” The hands clutching on to his stomach immediately release, the disgruntled silence returning over the continuous whir of the straining engines, and Tony feels the corner of his mouth quirk up in amusement.

The crowd is screaming now, audible even as the aircraft picks up speed, bumping over the uneven ground. A roar of rage rises over the wave of sound, and Tony doesn’t have to look back to know who it comes from.

“You will never get away with the Casket!” the blonde ringleader shouts, and Tony honestly wonders how their merry band hasn’t already been escorted out of the Exposition for sheer disruptiveness.

Not that it matters, because they’re already in the air, chugging along smoothly and rising further with every second. Tony keeps them on a straight course above the roads instead of making a circuit for landing as expected, a whoop of excitement leaving him at the sight of the automobiles creeping along beneath them.

It takes him a little too long to realise that Loki is leaning halfway out of the aircraft, peering back at the pursuers they’re leaving behind. “Do you _have_ a death wish?” Tony growls, reaching back to tug at Loki’s vest in annoyance, but the magician doesn’t seem to hear him.

“He’s doing something,” Loki says, sounding confused, one hand pressing down on Tony’s shoulder as he manoeuvres himself into a better position to fall out of the plane and die. “That hammer...he – _watch out_! Right! Right!”

The next thing Tony knows, not only does he suddenly have an earful of shrieking man right behind him, something shoves the _Maria_ hard to the right, sending them tilting dangerously out of control. He feels his beret fly off, and his shoulder slams painfully into the side of the cockpit. Out of the corner of his eye, he spots something veer away from them, a leftward arc to mirror theirs; it’s almost human-sized, in fact, a flash of red and silver.

“What _was_ that?” he yells, fighting to right them before they’re tipped out of the open-air cockpit like so many pieces of trash. One of Loki’s arms is back around his waist, too tight for comfort, but he’s not about to complain. He can barely hear anything over the rushing wind, and it takes him a second too long to find the horizon line.

The seconds spent wrestling the _Maria_ back under control seem to last for an eternity, but Tony is much too focused to feel even a smidgen of fear. He’s all but panting with exhilaration by the time he resets their course right out of the city, the adrenaline pumping through his veins keeping him sharp and alert.

Unfortunately, the same can’t be said for Loki, who has yet to loosen his hold on Tony. In fact, he’s almost convinced he can feel the pounding of Loki’s heart against his back – or maybe that’s just the magician’s trembling.

“Hey, you okay back there?” he calls, tilting his head slightly as if to better hear the response.

“Peachy,” is what he gets in return, in a very unhappy low growl that might be attributed to either lingering fear or airsickness.

Letting out a snort, Tony charitably lets that ambiguous answer slide. “So tell me again, who am I saving you from? And what’s so special about that thing hanging around your neck that they look ready to kill to get it?”

Loki withdraws slightly, shifting backwards as if they’re not crammed into a single cockpit seat together. “I have never seen them in my life,” he says stiffly. “I have no idea what they want with me.”

Tony purses his lips, the concentration required to maintain the _Maria_ ’s flight keeping his annoyance mild. “Okay, but what about that necklace? Ancient family heirloom or something you invented? Because I might want to hire you if that’s the case.” He’s really only half-joking about that.

“I’m a _magician_. The pendant is _magic_.” Loki says it like he’s speaking to someone particularly dull, which Tony does not appreciate at all.

“Yeah, and I’m not Tony Stark,” is his snippy response. Not his best, but he _is_ rather preoccupied at the moment.

Before he can finish rolling his eyes, Loki cuts in with a surprised, “ _You’re_ Tony Stark? The flying American?”

Tony blinks. “Uh, yeah. The _flying American_.” He’s always taken it as a given that he’s well-known overseas, but to find out exactly what he’s known _as_ is perhaps a tad disappointing.

“Hm.” Just from that soft acknowledgement alone, Tony can tell that Loki’s gearing up for some sort of comeback, and he’s not wrong. “From the way everyone’s been speaking about you, I thought you would be…taller. More imposing. You speak French well though.” The last part is tacked on grudgingly, like he’s just remembered he’s escaping with his life thanks to this particular flying American.

“Yeah, okay, thanks,” Tony snorts, accompanying his words with a flamboyant shrug, “but can we get back to your supposed ‘ _magic’_?” He’s gotten too many remarks about his height over the years not to be immune to them by now, even if they do come from smart mouthed circus performers on the opposite end of the vertical spectrum.

“That man was _flying_ , and you can’t believe in magic?” Loki gestures idly back in the direction of the Exposition, and Tony has to resist the urge to look back as well.

All he says, rather irritably, is, “What do you mean, _flying_?”

“The blonde, with the hammer and the cape.” Loki sounds equally annoyed now. “He flew after us, would’ve crashed right into us if I hadn’t pushed him away.”

For a moment, Tony has no idea what Loki is talking about, and then he says slowly, “You mean that one moment after we took off and almost crashed – that was you?”

It’s not that he believes in magic per se, but he definitely believes in logic. There had been no explanation for that unexpected rightward tumble, and he _had_ seen something soaring off in the opposite direction, which makes sense considering Newton’s third law, except it means that he has to come to the logical conclusion that _Loki_ is the source of the original force.

“You know what, I can’t deal with this right now.” He raises a hand off the controls for a moment, a clear signal to ‘please stop’. “You can tell me more once I’ve found somewhere safe to land.”

“Ah,” Loki mutters, his voice suddenly noticeably fainter.

Tony grins. “Don’t worry. You’re sitting with the most experienced pilot in at least two continents, probably.”

The buildings are thinning out now, giving way to open fields and patchy clumps of trees, with the occasional farmhouse thrown in. Tony’s gaze flits from side to side, searching for a clear area that isn’t currently occupied by some farmer’s entire livelihood.

A loud, unpromising _pop!_ abruptly rocks the _Maria_ , and Loki lets out a gasp of such horror that it sounds entirely theatrical. Tony’s eyes narrow, lips thinning as a very unwelcome plume of dark grey smoke floats past his eyes.

“I think we overheated,” he says, his conversational tone not at all matching his clenched fists and the growing tic in his cheek. “I don’t suppose you can fly.”

“No,” Loki grits out from between clenched teeth, except the aircraft makes a wild buck in the middle of his response, and his voice rises in pitch until it disappears in an undignified squeak. “But I can create a shield. It’s fine. We’ll be fine.”

Tony isn’t sure which one of them needs the convincing more, but he finds the stranglehold that has returned to his torso more comforting than he should.

The engines are choking intermittently now, sending them shooting forward through the air in jerky bursts every second. The _Maria_ ’s nose is pointed slightly downwards by now, and all Tony can do is aim her for the nearest empty field, hoping against hope that she won’t burst into flames upon landing.

“Hold on!” he yells, an unnecessary statement.

His stomach feels like it’s relocated to the vicinity of his throat as he watches the uniform shade of grass-green gain focus before his very eyes, till he can see the wave of rippling movement that their swift approach is sending through the waving blades. It’s hard to hold the control stick steady, but his hands are still locked into white-knuckled fists when they meet the ground with a sudden wrench and an ugly-sounding snap.

Tony flies forward, feels Loki’s grip around him slide away, and squinches his eyes shut. He feels oddly weightless for a moment, and then he doesn’t feel anything at all.

* * *

He opens his eyes approximately three minutes later due to the sudden drop in temperature around him, and the first thing he sees when he sits up is an ice-encrusted, steaming _Maria_. One wing lies rather forlornly some distance away, fibres and wire frame bent and protruding grotesquely.

The sight actually makes him want to cry, and he staggers to his feet feeling more heartsick than he should over a mere aircraft, of all things. But it’s an aircraft he’s spent years perfecting, labouring over every gear and strut with his own hands, through countless nights and into just as many mornings.

“Stark.” His upper arm is caught in a vice grip before he can wander over and lay his hands mournfully on the _Maria_ ’s frame, and he turns to see Loki standing beside him, a frown on his narrow face but otherwise unscathed – much like Tony himself, he suddenly realises.

“You did it,” he says, brows raising, mind turning away from his downed invention for just that moment. “The magic. The shield. The _magic_ – I can’t believe I’m saying that. And the ice is you as well, I’m guessing. This is amazing.” He shakes his head, his laugh quiet and disbelieving.

Loki looks momentarily apologetic. “I didn’t want to risk a fire.”

At this point, there is hardly any sense in him continuing to deny the existence of magic, not when Loki has _frozen_ most of the _Maria_ in the decidedly non-arctic weather. Still, the very concept is nigh impossible to wrap his mind around, and it takes everything Tony has to focus on the here and now.

“Okay, well,” he mutters, squinting around at the largest expanse of open land he’s seen in a long time. “We’ve definitely shaken off those nutters, so we should probably try to get back to the city.” He sounds less than thrilled at the prospect though; considering the dearth of automobiles or carriages around them, walking just might be their main mode of transportation.

Loki shrugs, expressing no opinion either way, and Tony sighs before shrugging his jacket off and slinging it over one shoulder. He can’t help wincing as they pass the detached wing, picking their way through the knee-high grass.

“Your own creation?” Loki asks curiously, glimpsing Tony’s expression and following it up with a careless gesture to the side.

“Yeah,” he acknowledges with a grimace. “Been working on her for ages, but I really only got down to it in the past year, after – you know, my parents’ accident. It was a good distraction.”

Loki shoots him a curious look, but instead of prying further like so many others, he says, quite out of the blue, “It feels like the future, your plane. You should keep at it. I’ve seen a lot of societies develop over the years, and you look like you could lead it.”

Tony doesn’t say anything at first, just laughs, more in bewilderment than anything else. It’s nothing he hasn’t heard before – that the Starks are the way of the future, that he will push steam power further than anyone else yet – but Loki hardly strikes him as the kind of person to engage in groundless flattery. The way he speaks, too, is oddly certain, and all the more unnerving for that.

Loki raises a brow, looking amused. “I’m older than I look, Stark,” he says quietly, almost teasingly, as he raises a hand to tap at his pendant with a finger.

Tony whips his head around to stare at Loki. “ _Seriously_? Is it some sort of hocus pocus spell or are you just not human?” He reaches out and squeezes Loki’s wrist a few times, as if that might reveal the magician’s true nature. “This is amazing. Proof of magic…I never would’ve imagined –” He shakes his head, staggered at the possibilities.

Magic and technology, the way forward.

“I’m fairly sure I’m human,” Loki snorts dryly. “I just age more slowly. I don’t know why.”

“Sounds pretty lonely,” Tony blurts out without thinking, an offer of sympathy that he immediately regrets. “I mean, you know, seeing people that you know die.”

Loki’s head cocks ever so slightly in Tony’s direction, before he pulls his arm away to tug pointlessly at his vest. “You get used to it,” he says coolly, with a shrug, ignoring the conspicuous raise of Tony’s brows.

The rest of their journey passes in much the same manner, exchanging easy questions that inevitably lead to less easy answers, because nothing about either of them is at all simple. The moment they’re able to, Tony flags down a passing carriage, which he directs to the _Le Meurice_ with badly-concealed relief.

“I should be getting back,” Loki mutters, even as he is already halfway onto the carriage. “The circus –”

“Will survive without you for a day,” Tony cuts in, rolling his eyes. “Besides, those thugs might still be lurking around. This way, you get to hang around in a swanky hotel suite and I get to pick your brain about your magic.” He flashes a smile more childishly thrilled than media-ready, and Loki stares at him for a moment before acquiescing without another word.

They’re minutes from arriving at the hotel when Tony finally seems to notice the frankly scandalous amount of skin Loki is flashing for the first time. “You should wear this. Don’t want to be too conspicuous when we’re walking in,” he says with a frown, pushing his jacket onto a startled-looking Loki. “They keep non-guests out pretty well, but you never know who might be hanging around outside. Reporters, paparazzi – _Le Meurice_ sees a lot of well-known guests.”

“Like you,” Loki observes, shrugging the too-small jacket on with a grimace. It’s pathetically comical, his larger frame squeezed into a coat meant for someone at least four inches shorter than him. The blood red wrap skirt and worn sandals don’t help matters any, but Tony figures it’s better than having the magician flashing his chest at the socialites that will no doubt be lounging around the hotel lobby.

“Stay close,” Tony says under his breath, but for once, he’s worrying too much rather than too little. They enter the opulent building and make it to the elevator without excessive fuss, the Stark heir’s presence more than enough reason to discount his rather more dubious companion.

The first thing Tony does upon stepping into the penthouse is to make a beeline straight for the icebox, the tension stiffening his shoulders seeming to disappear at the first sip of his half-empty whiskey bottle. Loki, on the other hand, is more preoccupied in struggling out of Tony’s jacket, which he tosses aside in annoyance the moment he is able.

“I can glamour myself the next time,” he says, just a little snippily, to which Tony reacts by insisting on at least three different demonstrations of various outfits. He _ooh_ s and _ahh_ s theatrically over every shower of gold sparks, earning a number of dirty looks from Loki.

“Amazing, truly.” Tony whistles long and high, impressed. “Especially the pendant’s self-protection. No one can touch it without your permission, right? Imagine if there was a way to place a spell like that on everyone’s belongings.”

It’s terribly nice, actually, to be able to chat so casually with someone he doesn’t have to keep sizing up every three minutes. Not that he has any guarantees that Loki isn’t just looking for a juicy piece of news he can cash in on, but the magician reminds him of Rhodey in all the best ways. It might just be the stinging bluntness that brings to mind his best friend, but it puts him at ease anyway.

Tony calls in for room service, and they eat sprawled out on cushions laid on the floor instead of at the dining table, until they’re both sated and sleepy. Tony turns to lie face-up on the ground, eyes only half-open, bowtie tossed on top of his discarded jacket and shirt half unbuttoned. Loki is still picking at the expensive cuisine, looking completely content for the first time.

“Stark,” Loki says suddenly, in the middle of his chewing.

Tony sighs in response, shifting his head slightly on the pillow. “Just call me Tony.”

A contemplative pause, before Loki concedes and repeats, “Tony.” Another long silence follows, in which Tony almost dozes off before the magician finally manages to find the right words. “You didn’t have to bring me along, so thank you.”

Tony comes awake at that, tilting his head upwards to grin at Loki, who smiles back, uncertain. “Well, I couldn’t just run off and leave you to get _robbed_ ,” he says dryly. “I mean, _now_ I know they wouldn’t have been able to steal your pendant, but if you hadn’t been talking to me after the show, you wouldn’t even have been around when those guys showed up. I have a sense of responsibility, you know.”

“Are you usually accused of not having one?” The corners of Loki’s mouth threaten to twitch upwards, even as he idly wipes his fingers delicately on the corner of a snow-white linen napkin.

Tony turns his scowl on the ceiling, sliding his eyes shut in a distinctly resentful manner. “Only by people who have nothing better to do than wish they were me.”

Loki only chuckles at that, and then they both lapse into silence once more, which inevitably throws Tony off. He might be excellent at filling spaces with meaningless, engaging words, but it is always at the behest of the fawning lapdogs around him, desperate for even a scrap of his attention. Even now, he can’t help expecting Loki to turn on him at any moment, with too many demands posed as questions.

Still, he manages to hold the silence, head nodding slowly to the gramophone playing quietly in the corner of the penthouse. Eventually, as the gravy on gilded silver platters begins to congeal, Loki’s quiet presence becomes comfortable rather than unnerving, which once again opens the floodgates of Tony’s curiosity.

“Would you still be able to do magic without the pendant?” is what he ends up asking. Three seconds later, he rolls over, propping himself up on his elbows to see exactly why Loki isn’t answering.

The magician is out cold, head turned to the side, mouth very slightly open, dark hair curling outwards on the gold-hued cushion. Tony’s first thought is that Loki sleeps very _quietly_ , his peaceful exhalations barely discernible even in the wide enclosed space. His second thought is more emotion than words, a wave of protective fondness that he knows Loki would absolutely not appreciate if he were awake.

It’s difficult not to feel protective of someone like Loki though, his frame narrow and lanky, a smear of dirt on the side of his skirt, the softly glowing pendant resting against his ribs like a beacon calling for trouble. Loki’s entire existence makes Tony want to feed him, soak him in a bubble bath for an hour, and them drag him back to America for Jarvis to fuss over.

It’s with a slightly dopey smile that Tony flops back down onto his own pillow, and a yawn overtakes him before sleep does the same, accompanied by the butter-smooth notes of Debussy in the background.

He dreams of flashes of green magic, the bitter chill of ice, the tinkling shatter of glass, and then he jerks awake with the swooping sensation of falling still in his stomach, only to realise that the broken window is more than just a dream. It’s the immense blonde warrior _again_ , hammer still in hand – because of course he _flew_ in. Through the _window_.

Tony doesn’t know why these things still shock him.

“Hey,” he croaks, voice still rusty with sleep and fear. One quick look to the side tells him that Loki is gone, cushion still shadowed by the indentation of his head, but that’s something he doesn’t have the time to ponder.

The intruder turns to him, expression speculative, as if he is noticing Tony’s presence for the first time. “Where is the Frost Giant, Midgardian?” he rumbles, and it doesn’t take a genius to understand that he’s asking about Loki.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Tony replies, with just the right amount of indifference to infuriate self-important assholes like the one standing in front of him. Predictably, the man puffs up in wounded self-importance, and if Tony hears something odd off to his left, he doesn’t allow himself to show any sign of it.

“Have some care with your words, _mortal_. You know not who you speak to.” A dramatic pause is allowed to ensue, and Tony has to hold back from rolling his eyes, because he doesn’t have a death wish. “I am Thor, Prince of Asgard and son of Odin, King of Asgard, Protector of the Nine Realms.”

Tony isn’t quite sure what to say first. “Thor?” he repeats stupidly, unsure that he is ready to meet a figure of myth on the same day that he’s discovered the existence of real magic.

Thankfully, Loki eliminates the need for Tony to make conversation with mythical royalty by promptly shimmering back into visibility, heaving a bulky table lamp in Thor’s direction even as the room temperature swiftly begins to drop. Tony scoots backwards hurriedly as Loki darts forward, as fast as a fencer, arm cocked back for what will no doubt be a magically-enhanced punch.

Thor turns to face Loki, unfazed, and takes the blow without even blinking. Tony hears Loki hiss, either in pain or anger, before the larger man – the word _god_ suddenly flashes through Tony’s mind – backhands the magician so hard he flies backwards into the bed frame, half a room away.

“Hey!” Tony yells, leaping to his feet, because he doesn’t know if Loki’s magic covers bone-breaking wounds, and he doesn’t hold for people hitting his friends anyway.

Except he might as well be invisible once again, because Thor doesn’t seem to hear him at all as he strides over to Loki, picking the magician up like a ragdoll. Tony thinks he sees blood, but he can’t be sure, because Thor is turning, holding Loki round the waist with an expression of utter distaste on his rugged face.

Tony sees his chance as Thor walks back to where a full panel of windows used to be. With a valiant effort, he takes a running leap, latching on to the end of that bright red cape just as Thor jumps out of the building the same way Tony would hop down a step when he was a kid. The next thing he knows, he’s falling for real, and he doesn’t like it any more than he did in his dream.

He screams, not even trying to stop himself, eyes closed and fists grabbing on to as much fabric as he can hold. He feels Thor hoist him up with his other arm just before they land on asphalt with a horrifying smash, saving him from being reduced to something terrible and unrecognisable. All around them, there is the frantic beeping of automobiles, but it takes a little longer for Tony to register that he’s actually still alive.

He blinks blearily, heart galloping fit to burst, and he’s not particularly surprised to feel the wetness gathering at the corners of his eyes. Shifting, still too weak-limbed to even think of escape or heroic rescue, he has just enough time to see Loki an arm’s length away, face slack and a trickle of crimson trailing past his lips, before Thor roars, “ _Heimdall_!” and the world disappears in another blinding flash of diamond-sharp light.

* * *

Tony’s head is spinning by the time his feet meet solid ground once more, and he immediately regrets eating so much just a few hours ago. He opens his eyes to the sight of Thor’s four cronies surrounding them, and his heart sinks. He’s not stupid; it doesn’t take him long to put Thor and Heimdall together to conclude that they are currently in _Asgard_ , of all places.

At any other time, he would be amazed – is he in another dimension? In outer space? – but Loki is limp on the floor, dropped unceremoniously at the moment of landing, and his panic is rising with every second.

“Bring them to the dungeons. The Allfather will see them on the morrow,” Thor says, striding off with his cloak swirling about his boots. The woman throws Loki and Tony a look of disgust that, in his opinion, is quite unwarranted, before following hot on Thor’s heels like a particularly vicious guard dog.

“Even the Midgardian?” the largest of the remaining three remaining warriors asks, looking troubled.

“It seems to have some sort of _affection_ for the giant,” Thor sneers, not even turning back. “The Allfather will decide on an appropriate fate for it.”

It. _Really_? Not even five minutes and Tony is already absolutely disgusted with this place. Before he can shout something immensely derogatory towards Thor’s receding back, he is unceremoniously dragged to his feet and onto a waiting horse, along with a quiet, dark-haired man whom he already hates on principle on account of being chased around all day by him.

“He’s injured,” he blurts, as the bearded warrior hoists Loki onto the saddle in front of him. “You – the Allfather won’t be able to speak to him if you keep shaking him around like that.”

He might as well be mute for all the attention they pay to him. The only reaction he gets is from the one whose horse he’s sharing, a hard smack on the side of his head that leaves him reeling once more. He comes out of it feeling smaller than he’s ever felt in his life; he feels like an errant dog that’s just been disciplined.

But even the quiet resentment bubbling up in his gut isn’t enough to take away from the sheer beauty of the landscape that unfolds before them once they emerge from the domed building. The bridge stretching out before them quite literally looks like it’s made of stars, shining and winking cheerily with every step their mounts take. Above, the sky shimmers in shades of indigo, maroon, periwinkle, a canvas of disparity from one end to the other – the famed northern lights would look like a child’s nightlight display beside such magnificence.

For a long moment, Tony is so entranced that all fear is forgotten. All he can do is try to commit the sight to memory, barely able to comprehend that he is quite literally, as far as he knows, heading where no man has ever been before.

The city ahead, already resplendent in gold from afar, is even more breath-taking up close. Something flies past overhead, impossibly fast – a _machine_ , sleek and beautiful and out of sight before he can take a second look.

The illusion of perfection lasts just until they are dragged through a number of corridors, down a flight of spiral steps, and tossed into a tiny cell walled on one side by what looks like gold thread. _Glowing_ gold thread that he suddenly suspects is magical in nature, and will no doubt pack a nasty punch should he attempt an escape.

“Hey,” he tries again, scrambling over as their third guard, a smarmy-looking blonde he wouldn’t touch with a ten-foot pole, clicks a pair of heavy manacles onto Loki’s wrists. “He might need medical attention, please. Thor hit him really –”

Again, he is swatted away, although the blonde actually spares him a look of pitying disgust instead of ignoring his entire existence all together. Tony stares after them as they leave, feeling his stomach sink with every step.

The cell is painfully bare, just a single, white-sheeted bed in the corner, surrounded by stark white walls. The perfect way to induce madness, is what Tony thinks of it all. It takes him far too long to get Loki settled on the bed properly – he’s leery of aggravating any internal injuries the magician might have sustained, but after the way Thor and his followers have been dragging them around everywhere, he doesn’t think things can get any worse.

Tony wipes the dried trail of blood from Loki’s skin carefully, lingering for a moment as if he can wake Loki up by the force of his stare alone, but soon enough he turns away. They aren’t going to get out of here just by having him sit around staring helplessly.

He makes half a dozen circuits of the tiny cell, trailing his hand along the unnaturally white walls carefully, knocking on random spots and stomping a few times on the floor. He even lays a hand on the gold-threaded, final wall, drawing back with a hiss of surprise at the mild tingle that it sends through him. Some sort of shield, he surmises, much like the one Loki threw up to protect them when the _Maria_ crashed.

It takes Tony another half hour to concede defeat for the night; he’s dealing with _magic_ , with things he’s never even believed in his entire life. He sinks down to the floor beside the bed, expression softening from its intense focus as he returns his gaze to Loki. Carefully, like the magician is something inherently breakable, he brushes his hand across Loki’s cheek – it’s cool but not clammy. A good sign.

Allowing himself to put some of his worry aside, he leans his head back against the side of the mattress and closes his eyes.

It seems like seconds later that he’s awoken by muffled whimpering – it feels like his entire _day_ has been a series of interruptions by various people and unwelcome events. He’s up before he even knows what’s happening, blinking against the harsh lighting of the cell, turning to grab on to a thrashing Loki.

“Loki!” The magician’s eyes are open, flashing bright in terror, and Tony has no idea what to do. “ _Loki_!” He perches on the edge of the bed and hauls Loki up, shoulder against Tony’s chest, head tucked under the inventor’s chin. He can feel Loki’s entire body shaking against him, full body tremors as he gulps for air and struggles to speak.

“ _Breathe_. It’s me, it’s just me. It’s Tony.” He’s not a doctor; he’s not even particularly good with _people_ in general, and fear is catching. “Loki, come on, calm down. _Loki_.”

Finally, Loki’s eyes roll up towards him and seem to fix on his face, but it’s another few minutes before he manages to gasp out a few barely audible words.

“ _I can’t use my magic_.”

His voice is so confused, so frightened, that Tony doesn’t even think before tightening his grip on the other man. “It’s okay,” he repeats. “We’re in prison, kind of, and they put these chains on you that might be stopping your magic. You’ll be okay once they’re off. You’ll be okay, trust me.” It’s an empty platitude at first, because he doesn’t know the first thing about magic, and so he _shouldn’t_ be trusted about any such related matters, but then he feels a timid nod against his chest, and suddenly the weight of Loki’s belief in him crashes down onto his shoulders.

“How are you feeling? When Thor hit you –” He breaks off with a shake of his head. For a moment, he had actually thought Loki would die from the sheer force of impact.

“I heal. It just takes time,” Loki murmurs. “I’m all right now. I can feel it inside me, my magic. I just can’t…use it externally. It feels like part of myself isn’t right. I’ve never – I need it to defend myself.” His words are tentative, as if he is reaching inside himself, testing his new limits.

“Don’t stop,” he suddenly says, and Tony starts a little. He hadn’t even realised he’d been rubbing a palm against Loki’s chest, but he starts the soothing motion again, and feels Loki relax against him.

Carefully, after a few minutes, they both shift so that they are lying down on the narrow bed. It’s a tight fit, but they make it work somehow, Tony with his arms around Loki, chest pressing against the magician’s back, a reassurance that he is still there.

“They used to burn people at the stake for witchcraft,” Loki says pensively, apropos of nothing. “I was sentenced at least four times, but I escaped every time because of my magic.”

“Stop thinking,” Tony mutters, blowing a gust of hot air against the back of Loki’s neck until he feels the other man twitch and hears his subdued laugh.

This time, they manage to sleep without interruption, at least until they’re roughly woken and escorted out of the cell by two very tall, very stern-looking armoured guards. Tony’s eyes are rough with grit and his mouth feels as dry as the desert, his stomach as empty as Thor’s head. Not exactly a good look to meet a god who is also a king.

A king who, apparently, neither wastes time nor minces words. “Give me the casket, giant,” are his first words approximately half a second after Loki and Tony are forced to their knees before the immense golden throne and the unnecessarily large number of steps leading up to it.

Tony is, after all, used to flaunting his wealth, and has become extremely proficient at identifying others who do the same.

Loki only raises his chin, defiant rather than insolent. “I’m afraid I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he says, although he does add after a moment, “Your Majesty.”

Odin sighs, looking thoroughly harassed, and Tony figures it’s probably too early in the morning for him as well. His tone, however, remains admirably calm as he replies, “I have no time for games. I know what you are, Jotun, and I know what you wear around your neck, disguised though it may be. You did well escaping to Midgard; we did not think to look in such a backward Realm until recently – but the chase is now over.”

Loki’s face is one of pure bewilderment now, and he glances over at Tony for a second, as if gathering courage. “I truly am not a...a _Jotun_ , Your Majesty,” he protests. “And I’ve always had this, since I was born. I didn’t steal it.” He’s fiddling nervously with his pendant again, and Tony nudges him until he stops.

Odin is frowning now, seemingly baffled by what is clearly an unexpected reaction from Loki. Without preamble, he mutters a string of words, spear in hand, before appearing even more surprised by what he sees before him.

“An _actual transformation_ ,” the king declares, sounding almost impressed. “How very cunning of Laufey. And of course, entrusting the Casket to you to enhance your powers, to maintain your youth in spite of your mortal shell, so you wouldn’t perish in some piddling way before returning to the Realm of your birth. Hidden in the very last place we would have thought to look. Magnificent.”

Tony and Loki exchange glances, unsure what to make of the suddenly genial old man.

“I’m not quite sure I understand, Your Majesty,” Tony ventures, seeing that Loki isn’t particularly inclined to say anything more. “Is Loki not…human?”

Odin turns his single eye on Tony, pinning him in place with the strength of his gaze. “Not at all,” he replies, his amusement turning sharp and mocking. “Not at all, Midgardian. You see, some time ago, a race of rather savage creatures invaded _your_ Realm. Being responsible for the wellbeing of the Nine Realms, Asgard came to your defense and triumphed over these Frost Giants, banishing them back to whence they came. To prevent another war of the same ilk, we attempted to take the source of their power, the Casket of Ancient Winters, but it went missing before we could wrest it from them.”

“This is where your _friend_ comes in.” Odin bestows a smile on Loki that is quite the opposite of warm. “A Frost Giant child, I would presume, transformed into a Midgardian and sent to Midgard, with the transformed Casket slowing your aging process. I merely wonder how Laufey thought to retrieve you and the Casket, or perhaps he was too anxious to put the Casket out of my reach to consider such matters. How long has it been, after all? A thousand Midgardian years?”

Tony takes a sideways glance at Loki, whose face is as blank as a sheet of paper, his fixed stare at Odin glassy. Tony doesn’t blame him; he feels like _he’s_ been bludgeoned with the truth, much less Loki, whose entire identity has just been smashed to pieces.

“So you see, I ask for the Casket merely to continue safeguarding the rest of the Nine Realms.” Odin’s tone turns kindly again, and Tony isn’t sure he trusts the king’s constant back-and-forth. “I myself have no use for it, but should it fall into the hands of the Frost Giants once more – you would not want to put the Realm you grew up in at risk, would you?”

“If I may speak, Your Majesty,” Tony speaks up hastily, before moving on ahead at full steam before Odin can reply in the negative, as he looks like he is about to do. “As you say, these, uh, Frost Giants are known to be violent and savage, but you claim that Loki, who has never shown a _single_ sign of violence, is part of this race. I can’t say I understand that.”

The question actually seems to surprise Odin, who turns a contemplative gaze on the magician. “Growing to maturity among Midgardians appears to have tempered the brutish characteristics of the Jotnar,” he comments approvingly, at which Tony lets out a snort.

“With all due respect, I wouldn’t call us a particularly peace-loving planet – uh, Realm, Your Majesty. Besides, raising a wolf among sheep won’t magically eliminate its instincts and make it a vegetarian,” he points out. “Maybe the Frost Giants aren’t as monstrous as they’ve been assumed to be. I mean, maybe they _were_ a backwater race back then, but it’s been a thousand years. Isn’t it time for a retrial, maybe? A re-evaluation? Maybe they’re ready to be responsible for their Casket again.”

Odin’s brows lift so high that Tony is half afraid the old man might keel over from the shock of being spoken to by some _lowly_ Midgardian, but finally he speaks. “You presume much, mortal.” His voice is low, rolling with thunder, and Tony immediately lowers his head, fairly sure that he is about to be smote by lightning at any moment. _No, wait, that’s Zeus_. The thought does not afford him much comfort.

“But I find your contribution valuable,” Odin concedes after a moment of thought. “I have ever been an advocate of peace over war, and it is true that the Jotnar have been…quiet these many centuries.”

“And if they do try anything outrageous, you have the power to fend them off and leave with the Casket, of course,” Tony presses, wondering what exactly he’s getting himself into. He supposes he’s getting Loki home; he can only hope that the same happens to him.

Odin looks pleased at the flattery, and he stands with a nod, his movements much more fluid than one would expect from his aged appearance. “Guards!” he says to the seemingly-empty room, and all of a sudden the next half hour is a flurry of movement for Loki and Tony.

They get the chance to dig in to a quick meal of bread and gravy, which Tony grudgingly admits is delicious despite its simplicity. “Are you okay?” is the only thing he manages to whisper to Loki at one point, who offers an unpromising shrug in return, his head lowered. He does, however, stay close to Tony, their arms almost always in contact, a constant that puts them both marginally more at ease.

After they are both bundled up in so many furs they can barely walk, they trail after Odin as he speaks to several well-dressed, impossibly tall people, no doubt finalising the details of their last-minute trip. Tony can’t help noticing that most of these people look distinctly appalled at the news, which probably amuses him more than it should, considering he is set to visit the very race that put that expression on their faces.

To his horror, they pick up Thor and his four cronies on the way as well, and it soon becomes clear that these five warriors are to make up the rest of their small delegation, along with Odin himself.

“But Father, there is no sense in brokering a peace with the _Frost Giants_ ,” Thor spits as they stride through the corridors. “They are monsters! Beasts who only know the joy of war. They will turn on you as soon as your back is turned.”

“I think _you_ are the one who knows the joy of war well, Thor,” Odin says, so coldly that even Tony winces. “Remember that you are to be the next King of Asgard, but that will not happen until you learn the art of diplomacy. The Jotnar are not the only ones who have made _mistakes_.” His words are quiet and grave, but they appear to cut deep all the same.

Thor doesn’t say another word as they ride towards the large dome they had arrived from the night before, and Tony leaves the palace with a considerable amount of new respect towards the Allfather.

For the first time, Tony sees the magnificent, gold-clad warrior standing in the middle of the dome, and he can’t help gaping openly. _Heimdall._ How he had managed to miss such a sight previously is beyond him, and he marvels at the gleaming blade until he is sucked into another vortex of impossibly bright light and deposited in a place that immediately makes him grateful for the excessive number of cloaks currently weighing him down.

“Jotunheimr,” Odin proclaims, from his seat atop his frankly bizarre, eight-legged horse.

An icy wasteland is all Tony sees, darker and drearier than the gleaming, snow-covered terrain he’s been imagining in his mind’s eye. It looks utterly deserted, and he feels Loki draw even closer to him. Fumbling with his furs, he slides his hand under the mass of Loki’s own cloaks, ignoring the bite of the winter chill until he finds Loki’s fingers and grips them tight.

Odin’s mount prances in place, hot breath billowing from its nostrils with every snort, but they don’t have to wait for long. A sudden crackle of ice is the only warning Tony gets before _something_ rises up from seemingly nowhere, although Odin seems to have been expecting this particular visitor. All around them, the slow thud of feet in the snow approach, dark shapes emerging out of the bleak landscape, and Tony thinks he hears Thor growl.

“Allfather,” says the first arrival, his tone carefully polite, and one look at him immediately has Tony retracting his previous statement about the Aesir being impossibly tall. _This_ individual towers over even Thor, matching Odin’s height even on his already-large horse. His pale blue skin blends perfectly into his environment, although Tony can’t help thinking that he looks rather gaunt for someone dubbed a giant.

“Laufey.” Odin returns the greeting with a slight inclination of his head. “I come today with no ill intentions. No, today I come bearing gifts, gifts that have been lost to you for far too long.” His words come across as regal, a royal declaration, rather than mocking, for which Tony is grateful. He isn’t particularly keen to be caught in the cross-fire between these giants and gods.

Laufey’s bare shoulders stiffen visibly, crimson eyes narrowing in abrupt suspicion. “Gifts, Allfather?”

Odin raises a hand, a demand for patience. “First, let it be known that I offer these gifts in the hopes that there will henceforth be peace between the Realms of Asgard and Jotunheimr. Let there be no repeat of our past confrontations; let all that is in the past be forgiven and forgotten.”

“That is all we wish for as well, Allfather,” Laufey acknowledges warily, but behind his confusion there is a clear ring of truth in his words.

Finally, Odin smiles, small but genuine. “Then come forth, little giant,” he calls, waving Loki forward.

The woman warrior draws Loki’s cloak aside, unlocking the manacles still adorning his wrists and revealing the ice blue of the Casket at the same time. Laufey’s gasp is audible to all, and he takes a large step forward, only stopping when he sees Loki take a startled step back in response.

“Desperate for every scrap of power,” sneers one of Thor’s friends from somewhere behind Tony, but the next moment, he falls into a stunned silence when Laufey sinks to one knee before them all.

“Loki?” The name whispers out from between Laufey’s lips, something precious he is finally letting loose out of hope. “My _son_.”

Loki is all but crushing Tony’s fingers at this point, but somehow he manages to speak through his shock. “You are my…father?” His voice is quiet but awestruck, and Tony feels a smile threatening to force its way through his frozen lips.

“Yes, and you have brothers as well. Two of them.” Laufey’s mouth curves into a sharp-edged smile, but he somehow manages to look warm all the same, his eyes glimmering with unshed tears. “We didn’t know if you would ever find your way home, but –” He breaks off, laying a careful hand on Loki’s fur-clad shoulder.

Slowly, reverently, Loki tugs the Casket over his head and holds it out to Laufey, who looks at it with some surprise before taking it. Immediately, with a soft glow, it expands to full-size, its stormy surface seeming to send a shockwave of light rolling across the entirety of Jotunheimr. Just like that, the whole place seems oddly brighter, like some of the shadows have receded in the presence of the Frost Giants’ power.

When nothing untoward happens in the next five minutes, and no wars are impulsively declared, the entire atmosphere becomes notably more cordial. Loki is pulled away to meet his brothers, while Odin makes polite conversation with some of Laufey’s generals. Thor and his friends continue to stand uncomfortably by, but Thor for one can’t seem to take his eyes off the tearful reunion happening a few feet away.

“Once you are transformed back, the cold will no longer bother you,” one of Loki’s brothers is saying excitedly. He sounds awfully young, despite his intimidating height, and the contrast makes Tony grin, even if he does feel a little empty at the thought of having to return home without Loki. Meeting the magician might just have been the most exciting moment of his life, but more than that, he finds Loki undeniably _interesting_.

He probably isn’t going to get the chance to get to know Loki any better than he already does though, no matter how much he might want to. He can’t imagine wanting to leave a family he’s only just found after a thousand years, and for what? Someone he’s known for twenty-four hours?

But Loki is stepping back, looking discomfited. “I’m not sure that I want to live here,” he says apologetically, and his brother gives a tiny, betrayed gasp. “I don’t – I’ve lived on Earth all my life. It’s all I know, and it’s so… _different_ here. I’m glad that I got to know you, but this isn’t my home. I don’t know if I can – if I _want_ to adapt.” He looks back nervously, and seems to calm after locking eyes with a wide-eyed Tony.

“I have friends back home, people I know and things I want to do,” he says, and his voice is taut with finality. “It’s like asking you to come and live with me on Earth all of a sudden. You wouldn’t want that, would you?” His tone softens as his brother shakes his head mutely, still looking dejected.

Laufey betrays no hint of surprise, although his expression is no less sad than that of his sons’. “You are welcome back at any time, Loki,” he says gently. “We have so much to tell you, so much to teach you if you are willing to learn.”

“The Aesir will be glad to provide aid to young Loki in the form of the Bifrost,” Odin adds, suddenly all smiles in a way that reminds Tony of Santa Claus. Thor, he notices with amusement, looks almost as miserable as Loki’s brother, although in the same way a theatre-goer would mourn the death of an onstage character.

Loki looks over at Odin, startled. “Thank you, Your Majesty,” he says, with a slight bow that Odin acknowledges with a faint nod.

“You do know that without the Casket to sustain you, you will begin to age?” Laufey says quietly. “You are a Midgardian, with a Midgardian lifespan.”

Loki smiles a little at that. “Everyone dies. I’m not afraid,” he says, in a tone clearly meant to reassure, and then he adds tentatively, “Father.” Laufey beams so wide at that that all of his teeth are visible, and then he has to look away to blink back his tears.

Their little party hangs around in the cold for another half hour as multiple rounds of farewells are said, including a number of awkward-looking hugs exacerbated by the fact that Loki has to avoid contact with his family’s icy skin.

Loki is subdued when they land back on Asgard, and Odin sends them off with well wishes and a good amount of praise for Tony’s ingenuity, although much of it is given in a tone somewhat reminiscent of a man amazed by a talking dog. Tony supposes he should just be grateful that he is no longer being referred to as an _it_.

As Odin departs with Thor, flanked by the four warriors, Tony is almost certain he sees Thor lean over to give his father a peck on the cheek, and he turns away with a badly-concealed smile.

“Hey,” he whispers to Loki, who looks at him with raised brows, his familiar sarcasm shining through even without words. “I have a proposal. How about moving your magic act to America? New York sounds like a promising place for some _real_ magic.”

Loki snorts, the corners of his lips twitching upwards. “And why would I want to do that?”

“You will have a _very_ rich sponsor,” Tony teases, nudging the taller man with his shoulder.

“The wonderful Loki doesn’t _need_ a sponsor,” Loki sniffs, looking away disdainfully.

“It’ll be easier for me to take you out to dinner if you’re not an ocean away,” Tony tries hopefully, openly grinning now.

Loki takes a moment to ponder that incentive, but his tone is still doubtful when he repeats, “Dinner?”

“With flowers,” Tony clarifies. “Maybe candlelit too.”

Loki smirks, and laces his fingers with Tony’s. “Very well then. I accept your proposal.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Tony sees Heimdall bring his blade down, and then they’re both whirled away in an explosion of white light, Loki’s hand still tight in his. Even through his disorientation, he can tell that they’re going home.


End file.
